Super Bowl? Frankly, we prefer the Oscars.

Super Bowl for us is about the new beer commercials where guys make ever bigger jackasses of themselves and, of course, the always good for a laugh half-time show. (Will Britney be this year’s surprise, wowing the fans as she runs onto the field in straight jacket, amid screams and white-smocked orderlies chasing after her with butterfly nets? Only to be met by Dr. Phil rising out of the stage in a sinister puff of smoke, joining his bullfrog basso to her moany contralto for a kick-ass rip on Joey Ramone’s I Wanna Be Sedated. We can only hope.)

As for the actual football game that is played at the Super Bowl: not really our thing, darling. Football players, however … another story entirely.

And apparently we’re not alone. (more…)

That guy.

We’ve all encountered him at one point or another. A big, swaggering no-neck as full of himself as he is protein shakes and Creatine.

He could be a construction worker, drill sergeant, police officer, lunkhead gym teacher, or gym rat fixture.

He’s vain, ego-driven, loud, devoid of a selfless thought in his head and prone to flaunting his body — all attributes that should make him a complete turn-off. Yet, on some primal level, he arouses us against all reason. While we may hate ourselves for it, that distinct urge to put him over a chair and jack hammer away at his adamantine loins gets the better of us.

Champion bodybuilder Brad Hollibaugh is that guy. At least onscreen. In real life he’s a recognizable name on the bodybuilding circuit, holder of countless titles, a former college wrestler, a father and grandfather, as well as a soft-spoken gentlemen who just happens to be built like Hercules.

Thanks to the cottage industry of self-produced Muscle Worship DVDs, he’s become a bona fide sex symbol, not quite Porn Star, not quite performance artist. His persona comes straight out of Archie Comics and mail order Charles Atlas ads: the dreaded Muscle Bully played to the hilt. Via his web cam and DVDs, we get to experience this unique specie’s daily life, be it measuring his massive biceps, showering languidly, singing his own praises, or admiring himself in front of his mirror, mirror on the wall.

Of course Mr. Hollibaugh’s confirming what we’ve always suspected: the Muscle Monster is a skilled cock tease who just loves to be admired and really doesn’t care who’s doing the eyeballing as long as he’s the center of attention. Hollibaugh actually gets the irony he’s playing at and what makes his act all the more glorious to behold is his genuine wide-eyed rollicking in his own astoundingly pneumatic bod. Few men can claim to inspire such a collective case of blue balls as this man does. (more…)

Titian. Red Blond. Ginger. Strawberry Blond.

Orange Red. Auburn. Copper Blond. Burnt Orange.

Redheads may come in a variety of shades, but we’ll never mistake that for being prosaic. Only an estimated one to two percent of the earth’s population can say they boast natural red tresses. Scarcity breeds a fetishistic cred.

That’s why we love our Copper Tops.

Running your fingers through a fiery red brush cut. Clasping rippling porcelain flesh. Beholding a golden red trim line south of the navel (now forever known as the Fire Crotch). Having a pair of glacial blue eyes gaze up at you … or down at you … or back at you with wild carnal abandon. These are the few moments in life that can truly be called rapturous.

Though it’s often bemoaned that women are the ones typed by hair color in popular movies, literature and culture at large, men are ultimately just as branded by their locks. Brunets are sultry and intense, while blonds are vivacious and doe-eyed ingenues. Just a passing glance through the last bastion of every hoary pulp convention — the daytime soap — will suffice to evince that maxims are deathless.

But redheads? They’re the wild cards that break from the pack and run the gamut. Down through the epochs they’ve been cast as firecrackers with blazing tempers, fearless and brazen non-conformists, comical rogues, formidable heroes, deviant tricksters and tarty jesters. (more…)

Well, it used to be a jockstrap.

But, of course, the jock couldn’t work miracles all by its lonely. It needed a nice heavy sack to make the ribbing expand — one’s own “meat and potatoes” as our dear, departed Anna Nicole once said in a rare lapse of taste.

Second best friend would be one of those Styrofoam cheaters that “shape and lift,” the Wonderbra of jockstraps.

Third in line — and the real subject of this entry — is a new invention, the Nuttybuddy.

The Nutty what?

It’s the stronger, tougher jock cup to protect — ah yes — “your boys.” Invented by ex-pitcher Mark Littell, the Nuttybuddy is twice the price ($20) of the usual athletic cup.

But Littell, 54, claims that nine seasons with the Kansas City Royals and St. Louis Cardinals gave him an inside track on both fast balls and ball fastenings.

To make his point, he gamely puts his own jewel box in danger in a — surely unintentionally hot — but hilarious, dick-centric clip that is burning up the bandwidth on YouTube today.

Let’s go the videotape, shall we sports fans? (more…)

Half-naked men!

It’s hard to top full-frontal nudity. But some half-dressed men — like the one at left — manage to do it with the sheer menace of their stare… the size of their arms! … the rip of their abs!

Why is it that certain stages of undress appear more naked than outright nudity?

The answer, I think, lies in the eye of the beholder.

Certainly we gay men look at half-naked men more aggressively than women do. The difference has little to do with homosexuality, a lot to do with the male sexual gaze.

“Men look at women,” gender scholar John Berger famously observed. “Women watch themselves being looked at.”

It’s a crucial difference. I think it is this eye-hunger, the frank aggressiveness of the male gaze, that explains why the half-nude seems more maddening to us than the Full Monty.

There is also the fetish power of clothing. Fetishes, for the most part, are about clothes — particularly those sexually charged costumes in which the body appears to be both naked and not naked at the same time: (more…)

Ah, frat boys. Consider the plight of young privileged males on the college campuses of America. More boy than man, these sturdy, somewhat elongated young stags are in the grips of what Tom Wolfe memorably called “the season of the rising sap.” Completely housebroken, of course, but pretending otherwise to impress their “Bros.”

Bros should not be confused with dudes. Bros are closer than dudes, but dudes can become Bros after some straight-boy ritual of male bonding like consecutive all-nighters playing Halo 3 and ordering out for Taco Bell or performing any of the American tribal stunts seen in the Jackass films — taking turns riding in a shopping cart, for instance, as it barrels down a hill into traffic, then putting the video up on YouTube or your Facebook page.

It’s the deep basso chuckle of collective Bro-dom that one hears in darkened movie theaters when the notice comes up before the Jackass films warning that the stunts they’re about to see are being performed by “professionals” and should not be attempted by the jackasses in the audience.

In a world where closet doors have swung open, guy-bonding must never be mistaken for gay-bonding. Thus the phenomenon of “the gay seat” — what the Bros call the empty seat that’s left between two friends who go to the movie together but who must never be confused with being together. To double insure this, the Bros are most likely to attend what they call “dick flicks” — movies characterized by car crashes, explosions and boobs — the very polar opposite of the romance-sappy “chick flick,” and peopled almost exclusively by other guys all separated by empty seats. (more…)

Nightcharm is excited to bring Inner Circle members exclusive BUTT interviews and photo shoots. The following conversation between Jeppe Laursen and Gert Jonkers is the sort of spirited exchange that typifies the magazine’s easy-going and horny approach to all things queer. Enjoy! (more…)

I’m here to talk about bimbos!

Biblical bimbos!

Photogenic Mormons are doffing their tops for the good of their faith. And I’m conflicted.

Sure, there’s no better score than a guy with self-esteem problems — the sort of “issues” that cause him to seek out religion and beefcake photography. Yet still, I can’t help feeling skeptical.

Under the aegis of its parent company Mormons Exposed (I kid you not), the Men On A Mission Calendar features “twelve handsome former missionaries who have dared to pose bare-chested.”

The project is supposed to be all about the spiritual beauty that comes from within, not just trading in sculpted torsos and great abs. The copy writes itself:

“Rod loves his position as a missionary, spends hours on his knees, and will give you the shirt off his back. Turn-ons include topless testifying, constitutional amendments, and tending to the lepers.”

Have a listen to the venture’s co-founder and producer Chad Hardy as he elaborates on the calendars raison d’etre and try to keep a straight face: (more…)